


Console me in my darkest hour

by klose



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angsty Exiles, F/M, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-10
Updated: 2007-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4136778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klose/pseuds/klose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short writings from 2007/2003, featuring Finwëans (mostly of the House of Fingolfin).  </p><p>I. Anairë & Fingolfin<br/>II. Ñolofinwëans on the Helcaraxë<br/>III. Finarfin & Eärwen<br/>IV. Nerdanel & Fëanor<br/>V. Anairë & Fingolfin Revisited</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anairë & Fingolfin

**Author's Note:**

> These pieces were all written in 2007 unless otherwise stated ~~holy crap I'm old~~

 

* * *

The sight of Ñolofinwë, and the knowledge that he is near, affects Anairë in ways she does not quite like. First comes the strange leaping in her chest, and the sudden quickening of her heartbeat--then, the irrational plotting to get his attention; perhaps by accidentally dropping her shawl in his vicinity or spilling her drink on him.   
  
Anairë isn't sure who is more frustrating: him, for making her think these things, or her, for having these mad delusions in the first place.   
  
He has only to look at her, his lips parted in an earnest smile, and she forgets to balk.  
  
***

"Twelve years in exile?" says Anairë, punctuating her words with a derisive laugh. "A babe would not even be full-grown by the end of that time. It is certainly no less than Fëanàro deserves, for what he did to you."  
  
Ñolofinwë does not reply.  
  
"What happened next?" Anairë asks, sighing.  
  
"I said that I would release him and remember no grievance against him," he says, face and voice inscrutable.  
  
Anairë tries not to sigh again. She almost wants to think he had done this, not so much out of brotherly love (or is it obsession, for all that it is requited?), but out of an awareness that doing so would better him in the eyes of their people.  
  
It is terrible for her to hope that her husband was capable of such cunning and manipulation, she knows. But it seems to her that the alternative is worse; that he would be so naïve as to hope this would gain him Fëanàro's affection. Ñolofinwë calls him brother; they are not brothers. What shared memories are there, where is the emotional connection?   
  
Anairë wonders if she supposed to pity her husband, or slap him instead.  
  
  
***  
  
The days of preparation for the departure to Middle-earth are filled with arguments and tears.   
  
In the end, Anairë can only kiss her children goodbye, and bestow them with gifts. Cloaks and ornaments for all; way-bread for her sons, the secret of its making for her daughter.   
  
For her husband, Anairë has nothing-–for he is the one leading them on this misguided quest, away from Valinor, and away from her. Anairë carried each child in her womb and nurtured them, yet it is Ñolofinwë who holds their hearts.  
  
It is more than she can bear to give him.  
  
  
***  
  
How many millennia have passed-–how many since they left? The House that Ñolofinwë built still stands proud in the heart of Tirion. The pillars remain, and the walls, but so much else has rotted to dust. Trinkets, books, clothing, vanity tables, sculptures and paintings... her marriage bed. Imprints of her family, succumbed to the ravages of time and mortality.  
  
Fates they shared with their masters, for none of them returned. Anecdotes are passed about the glorious deaths of her children and husband, but it is senseless, all of it senseless. Lives of worth, bright burning flames, all cruelly extinguished.   
  
They dwell now in the Halls of Mandos, but their spectres remain in the halls of their old home: Findekáno, Turukáno, Arakáno, Irissë, Ñolofinwë... always, always Ñolofinwë.  
  
Anairë would hate him, for taking everything from her, for leaving, for not coming back. For making her this bitter, bereaved creature that she is, she would hate him.  
  
She would, but she does not. Fallen since the first time he smiled at her, when something deep within her stirred so potently that she has not forgotten it.   
  
What Anairë does hate, however, is how even after all the years and anguish and loneliness--even after all of that, she still loves him, and she always will.


	2. Ñolofinweans on the Helcaraxë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess this follows my idea in [Bonfires of Trust, Flashfloods of Pain](http://archiveofourown.org/works/219931), where I have Anairë initially (reluctantly) joining her family on the journey to Middle-earth before turning back with Finarfin.

* * *

 

**I. Araman, Year Zero**

Turukáno stares at him through narrowed eyes. "Where is Mother?"

Ñolofinwë sighs, putting a hand over his eyes. "She turned back."

"And you _let_ her?"  

"Turukáno!" someone--Ñolofinwë cannot be bothered to think about who, exactly--admonishes, but he does not begrudge his son's furious disbelief.

A warm hand touches his own, and he looks down to see Irissë, looking back up at him with wide, worried eyes. Little Itarillë is sleeping in the crook of her arm, oblivious to the pain and tension surrounding her.

"Mother left us?" she whispers, his beloved, beautiful daughter.

Ñolofinwë struggles to respond, but he manages to choke the words out. "You still have me."

He draws Irissë, and Itarillë, into a tight embrace, realising that though his children are all grown and in no more need of such care, he would have to take the role of both mother and father, for them, and his brother's children.

\--

**II. The Grinding Ice, Year Two**

They stop to rest their bodies; even though constant movement is their only defence against the cold, and the only way to make the blood in their veins flow warmer through their limbs.

But those limbs need rest, and so they make small camps when they can, making feeble fires and eating what little food is available to them. Grief is rife amongst all, for many have already been lost; to breaking ice and unbearable frost. Spirits are low, and Ñolofinwë himself frequently despairs of ever reaching Endórë.

He cannot show it, however, for now he is King in their eyes, and they look to him to be strong when they cannot. And he has to remember that, Eru willing, he is not going to let Fëanáro stand him down. The host of Ñolofinwë will march onto the Eastern shores with their heads high and proud, recovered and stronger than before their defeat by Fëanáro--who had proclaimed himself their King!--and his betrayal.

It had been beyond humiliating, the realisation that Fëanáro had deserted them. The iron-cold fist of fear and despair that had closed around his heart, at that moment--the torment of the Grinding Ice is nothing in comparison, Ñolofinwë thinks.

"I still cannot believe it."

It is Irissë, whispering into his chest as she leans into him, sharing her body warmth. Ñolofinwë looks down at her, despairing that he has brought his darling girl through these forsaken lands--for what? The promise of glory in a place where Melkor has presumably continued his reign of his merciless terror?

He sighs, suddenly deflated. Irissë would not have listened to him, even if he had returned to Valinor and bid her to do the same. At least, this way, he can keep an eye on his children.

But even as he looks around him, he has to wonder. His brother's children keep close, ever a tight-knit group, and behind him, his eldest and youngest son sit huddled together, keeping watch. Beside them, Turukáno has curled up on his cloak, embracing Itarillë tightly and shielding her against the cold. His face is blank, but his eyes are filled with grief. Elenwë had been one of the first to be taken by the shifting ice.

Ñolofinwë draws his daughter closer to him, trying to breathe in her lavender scent that somehow lingers in these forsaken lands, that reminds him so much of Anairë. He could not have survived this far without the comfort of his loved ones, even if not his wife. Some days, having his children close is the only thing that has stopped him from succumbing to the despair that lurks beyond the edges of his thought; from simply lying down upon the frozen wastes and never getting up again.

"Stay with Turukáno," he tells Irissë, his voice roughened to unfamiliarity by the cold. "He needs you more than I do."

She stares back at him for a long while. Then, she nods. With one last, tight embrace, she leaves him, and goes to her brother and niece, holding them tightly to her. Ñolofinwë watches them for a short while, to distract himself from the cold void her departure had leaves beside him. He is now undeniably alone, but he cannot rue the fact. Sacrifices have to be made, by kings and fathers alike.


	3. Finarfin & Eärwen

* * *

Arafinwë stood alone in the square of Mindon, staring blankly at the dark, empty city that surrounded him. His brother's disappointed words of parting echoed in his mind.  
  
_"Whatever it is that you find when you return to Tirion, Áro... I hope it is worth it."_  
  
Bereft of his family, the only one who remained in Aman of the House of Finwë, it was with great sorrow that he returned to Eärwen. As he fell to his knees before her, he expected to be shouted at. He thought she might beat her small fists upon his chest in anger, or weep into his shoulder.   
  
But his wife stepped back from him, doing none of those things. Her eyes were narrowed, lips pursed.   
  
"You left me, and you took our children with you," she said. "Do you think I will forgive you so easily?"  
  
She turned her back on him.  
  
_"Whatever it is that you find when you return to Tirion, Áro... I hope it is worth it."_  
  
He had escaped the curse called upon the exiles. The Valar had declared him innocent of bloodshed in the Kinslaying, and what remnants of his people who remained called upon him to take up the Kingship of the Noldor, the last son who should never have had to take on his father's crown.  
  
Yet still despair left a bitter taste in Arafinwë's mouth as he stood alone in the desolate streets of Tirion. He had been foolish to hope for grace. There would be no grace for the Noldor, not even for those who had turned back from that forsaken march.   
  
The House of Finwë had fallen, and now only Arafinwë Ingoldo remained, bereft of all whom he loved and burdened with the knowledge of the curse that would claim them all. 


	4. Nerdanel & Fëanor

a true drabble written in 2003

* * *

 

He is burning, burning, burning. I am drawn like a moth to a flame by that burning. I will scorch myself to have that fire in me for but a small while; for there is no other fire that can sate my own, fey though this one may be. It is a fight of fire with fire, mine against his, but it is no true fight, for I am but a spark to his blaze, and this fight of fire against fire ends in ashes. Not the ashes of Fëanáro, spirit of flame, but those of Nerdanel, lover of fire.


	5. Anairë & Fingolfin Revisited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a true double-drabble written in 2003 (!). It isn't linked to the previous Fingolfin/Anairë ficlet in this collection.

* * *

"Do you love me less?" he had asked with a laugh, and I would have believed it to be in jest, but for the worry in his eyes. I had laughed and smiled, and replied that I loved him as a husband, and Eärwen as a sister; and then his smile had turned to one of bemusement.  
  
Now he comes to me again, with those very words playing on his lips once more. "Do you love me less?" he repeats, the worry in his eyes replaced by heart wrenching pain.  
  
I cannot tell him why I stay, but he suspects the reason with misguided judgement. He cannot understand that as mothers, Eärwen and I must be strong together as our children depart from us. He does not understand that I have not the strength to follow them and my husband to their inevitable deaths, or to continue living after those evil events have come to pass.  
  
But here in these marred, undying lands, I will wait, for years on end if I must, for them and for my beloved Nolofinwë to return to my arms again.  
  
"Nay," I say, my smile now sad. "It is that I love you more." 


End file.
